


Dementor

by LeoKitty



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Bullying, Eating Disorders, Gen, Grief/Mourning, One Shot Collection, Tearjerker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2016-04-26
Packaged: 2018-06-04 17:21:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6667606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeoKitty/pseuds/LeoKitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the darkest of times, it can feel as though you will never be happy again. As their worlds close in around them, hope seems far away...</p><p>Luna Lovegood struggles to understand why her mother will never return.</p><p>Helena has finished her education but is trapped at Hogwarts, struggling against her mother's reputation and not knowing how to build a life elsewhere. But then a formal ball, a familiar routine of dancing and polite conversation, spirals out of control.</p><p>Dolores Umbridge struggles to cope with the consequences of being different. (Trigger warning: eating disorder, substance abuse)</p><p>Molly Weasley had two brothers, and they died on the same day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Luna Lovegood

**~ Luna Lovegood ~**

 

It wasn't until after the funeral that it finally sank in. Mummy wasn't going to come back. Although she'd seen the accident, it hadn't made sense. Mummy wouldn't leave like that. It was just a joke - she would sit up laughing any minute. Even if Mummy was hurt, she could make it better. Mummy was good at making things better.  
  
But what if she was too hurt to make herself better? Maybe she needed someone else to make her better. But Luna couldn't do it. Why not? She could do magic - she'd done magic for the first time just a few weeks ago. But she didn't have a magic wand. She needed a wand, then she could do Mummy things - making things better, and cooking yummy food, and making pretty sparks, and writing words in the air for Luna to read.  
  
Luna traced letters in the air with her finger, leaving a trail of light. Luna. Mummy. She could do Mummy things without a wand. So she could have made Mummy better, but she didn't. Maybe she'd been too slow - she'd just stood by the door, looking, as Mummy fell down and didn't get up. She'd run to get Daddy, instead of making Mummy better.  
  
She shouldn't have gone into the room at all. That was Mummy's magic room, and only Mummy and Daddy were allowed in when she was doing magic. But Daddy kept  forgetting, when he was busy in Daddy's magic room with his noisy machines. He sent Luna to tell Mummy it was tea time. Luna liked looking at magic, so she'd opened the door quietly and peeped in. Mummy was doing pretty magic. Then there was lots of light and noise and smoke and she fell down. And she didn't get up again.  
  
Mummy had said they would go for a walk next morning, if it wasn't raining. They were going to look at butterflies and pretty flowers. Next day was sunny, but Mummy never came. Luna put her shoes and coat on by herself, and sat on the doorstep to wait. There was a butterfly on the dirigible plum bush, a pretty gold one on one of the upside-down orange fruits.  
  
She sat very still, watching it and waiting for Mummy to come. Mummy promised that they would go for a walk if the weather was nice, and it was. But Mummy wasn't here. Daddy was in his magic room, with his noisy machine. He hadn't said very much. And Mummy - Mummy wasn't here, but she'd promised. Mummy never broke promises.  
  
The butterfly landed on her finger, and she stayed very still. It opened its wings, showing off the pretty gold. Gold. Mummy's colour. When they did painting, Mummy used gold paint to make her pictures extra pretty. Luna wanted to show Mummy the butterfly, but if she moved it would fly away. And she didn't know where Mummy was. Mummy was supposed to come - Mummy promised.  
  
The butterfly moved, fluttering its wings and flying away. But not very far, and it came back. Away and back, away and back. Luna stood up, very slowly. The  butterfly flew further, and came back, then away and hovered in the air. Luna moved forwards. It flew again, and waited. It wanted her to follow, so she did. Mummy could do lots of things. She was good at magic. And the butterfly was Mummy's colour.  
  
But she didn't think about that much. She was watching the gold butterfly, fluttering in the sun. And she was following it, to see what it wanted to show her. Mummy promised they would go for a walk, but she wasn't here, so why shouldn't Luna go on her own? Daddy was in his magic room, with his noisy machines. Mummy fell down yesterday, and she never got up. Luna didn't know where she was. But the butterfly wanted to go for a walk with her.  
  
They followed the usual path, up the hill, to the top where there were flowers and sky. Purple heather and blue sky with fluffy white clouds, and lots of butterflies in the heather. Blue ones, and white ones, and brown ones, and red ones. Mummy would have liked to see them. She would have painted pictures of all the different kinds, and known what they were all called.  
  
But Mummy wasn't here. The golden butterfly had vanished across the sea of heather, impossible to pick out among the specks of so many colours. Luna sat watching the butterflies and the fluffy white clouds. It was a perfect morning, the sort Mummy loved. Why wasn't Mummy here? Mummy had promised to come for a walk, but she wasn't here and Luna was on her own. She'd never been here on her own before.  
  
She wasn't alone, really. There were so many butterflies, and less visible were bees buzzing around busily and ladybirds crawling across leaves. There were ants crawling on her socks, and woodlice when she lifted a stone. High above were birds, too far away to see what they were. She wasn't alone, but she felt like she was. Mummy wasn't here.  
  
She wandered home when her tummy told her it was lunch time. The path seemed longer on her own, and she didn't stop to watch a lone rabbit hopping quickly across the path or a crow perched on a fencepost. Mummy would have pointed them out, and waited very quietly, then told Luna all about them. How old they were, whether they had children at home waiting for them to return, husbands or wives, whether they were enjoying the sun or hurrying to find food for their families. If she saw a bird, she knew whether it lived nearby or was just passing through on a long journey. Then she would tell Luna about the places that bird might have seen, or where it might be going.  
  
But when Luna looked at the birds flying overhead, she didn't know where they were going. She didn't know whether they had family to feed, or whether they were playing in the sun. Mummy wasn't here to tell her. So she walked back down the hill, looking at the path instead of all around. Usually she held Mummy's hand, but Mummy wasn't here.  
  
Daddy was still in his magic room, and his noisy machines were banging. It was lunch time, so she went into the kitchen. Mummy always made lunch. But Mummy wasn't here, and there was no food. Daddy would come out soon, and he would be hungry like Luna, and Mummy had disappeared. Luna wasn't allowed to touch the knives or cookers on her own, but she and Daddy needed lunch and Mummy wasn't here. She knew how - Mummy could do it, and she could be like Mummy.  
  
When she cut her finger, it hurt, but it was only a little cut and she put it in her mouth. Mummy could make it better, but Mummy wasn't here and Luna didn't know how. It only hurt a little bit, so she didn't need to disturb Daddy. She wanted to surprise him, and Mummy too when she got back. If Mummy came back. She fell down, and didn't get up - why not? Mummy always got up again. And Mummy always kept her promises, but she didn't take Luna for a walk even though it was a nice day.  
  
Luna knocked on the door of Daddy's magic room. The noisy machines were banging, and she didn't open the door. What if Daddy fell down too, because she opened the door when she wasn't allowed? He opened the door, in the end, and looked at her in a funny way. "Are you alright, darling?"  
  
"It's lunch time, Daddy." He looked like he was going to cry. But grown-ups didn't cry. Luna cried when she was sad or hurt, but Mummy made her better. She didn't know how to make Daddy better. "Come on - I made lunch." Why didn't he say anything? He was crying as he followed her, but grown-ups weren't supposed to cry and she didn't know what to do.  
  
Mummy would come back soon. She wouldn't just disappear like this, not without saying goodbye. Luna fell down all the time - one time she had to go to hospital because she hurt herself badly. Maybe Mummy was at hospital. But when she asked when Mummy was coming home, Daddy cried again and said she wasn't going to. But she would, of course she would - Mummy wouldn't just disappear without saying goodbye. She always said she had to look after Daddy. Luna did it for her, until she came back.  
  
Then Daddy took her out to the top of the hill, where there was a big box and lots of people. A man said a lot of strange words, and lots of people cried - grown-ups shouldn't cry, but lots of the grown-ups were crying. Luna didn't know what was happening, or why they were burying a box, but Mummy wasn't there to explain.  
  
She pulled away from the crying grown-ups, scared and confused. Mummy would explain, but Mummy still hadn't come back and Daddy said she never would. There were other children - Ginny, holding her Mummy's hand. Luna should have been holding Mummy's hand like that, but Mummy wasn't there. Ginny wasn't crying - why were the grown-ups crying, but not the children? It was the wrong way round, but Luna didn't know how to make them better.  
  
When the person stopped talking, and the box was buried, Luna could talk to Ginny. Ginny's Mummy was very different to Mummy, but she was a nice sensible grown-up who did proper Mummy-things when Luna visited. She invited Luna to come and see them, and after eating they sat down in the garden and she told Luna why Mummy would never come back.  
  
She explained death in a way that Daddy couldn't, and Luna understood why Daddy was so sad and why Mummy would never come back. Ginny's Mummy would always be here if she needed someone to talk to about the kind of things that Mummies knew. She did more than that. She came to see them most days, with Ginny, and helped to cook meals that could be warmed up easily and make sure everything was clean and tidy. She washed the clothes, and Ginny helped Luna hang the washing out and do the easy kind of cooking that Ginny's Mummy taught them. Then they played outside, and climbed the hill right to the top where the heather and the butterflies were to look at fluffy white clouds.  
  
When they had gone, Luna sat upstairs looking at Mummy's paintings. There was one on the table which she hadn't finished, and she would never come back to finish. Luna sat in Mummy's chair and looked at it. There were lots of colours, but no gold. Gold was Mummy's special colour, the one she put on last which made the picture look magic. Luna would use gold when she was bigger.  
  
The painting didn't look right without gold. It was pretty, but not special like Mummy's other pictures. It was a yellow butterfly, perched on top of a dirigible plum. It was almost finished, but not quite, and Mummy would never finish it-  
  
Luna dragged the chair across the room to the cupboard. The gold paint was on the top shelf, and Luna climbed up on the chair to reach. She'd watched Mummy doing the gold on the paintings lots of times, and knew how it should be done. She could see in her mind how the painting should look, and her brush almost seemed to move by itself.  
  
The butterfly looked magic now, like Mummy's other paintings. Luna stuck it on the wall over her bed, and looked at it when she went to bed and again when she got up in the morning. She could do Mummy things, she could look after Daddy and paint pretty pictures. But Mummy should be doing those things. She should, but she couldn't, and she would never come back, so Luna had to do them.


	2. Helena Ravenclaw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Helena has finished her education but is trapped at Hogwarts, struggling against her mother's reputation and not knowing how to build a life elsewhere. But then a formal ball, a familiar routine of dancing and polite conversation, spirals out of control.

**~ Helena Ravenclaw ~**

 

Her lower tunic was dark blue, edged with delicate embroidery in gold thread. She had made it herself, hours bent over the cloth with the needle pricking her finger again and again, thousands upon thousands of tiny stitches. Lady Hufflepuff had taught her - Helena's mother would never have had the patience. Helena enjoyed needlework, in a strange way - her mother would leave her alone, seeing that she was at least behaving in a ladylike manner.  
  
Helena preferred to be outside, watching the boys flying on their broomsticks. She had stolen one, once, in the night when no-one was around. It was not proper for a lady to sit astride in such a manner, nor was flying a necessary skill for them to learn, but Helena had loved the freedom of being alone in the deep blue sky with just the stars and the moon.  
  
She watched the boys fly and in her daydreams she was up there with them. At other times she trailed a hand in the lake as she sat on the bank, creeping up the dormitory to change before the mud stains from the wet ground were seen. Sometimes in summer, she went there in the late evening and enchanted one of the boats to carry her out across the rippling water, dark blue reflections of a dark blue starry sky. Freedom, with no-one to tell her how to behave.  
  
This was what she did during the holidays especially, when during the day it was harder to escape her mother's attention. Everyone believed that she should marry the young Earl Killian, a young wizard of excellent birth, and they tried to convince her of the benefits at every opportunity. Helena hid her frustration, and her anger - she knew she would never love him, could barely tolerate him. And although no service had been said, she considered herself married in the eyes of the Lord.  
  
Matilda had written, once. A young man, trapped in a woman's body, Killian's sister. She was about to enter a convent, she said, because otherwise she would be expected to marry a man she cared nothing for. Helena saw the sense in that decision, but she could not bear to spend the rest of her life like that. Her mother would not force her to marry, so she did not need that last resort. She enjoyed her life outside. One day she would be her mother's heir, so loved and respected and free.  
  
For now the only freedom she had was when she crept from the castle at night. Under the dark blue sky, she could do whatever she liked. She had power over her own life, and freedom. She could steal a broomstick and fly, or enchant a boat to carry her across the lake. She could swim, or she could lie on her back and stare at the stars.  
  
So when she finally began to work the new tunic, she chose cloth the colour of the sky. It pleased her mother - Lady Ravenclaw assumed blue as her own colour, and the colour of her house. But Helena did not care for that. To her, blue meant the sky and the lake. Freedom, and with freedom came power.  
  
She hated blackwork, trying to make the pattern even and conceal the ends of the thread, but when she was absorbed in it she could almost ignore when others spoke to her. Perfect trims - perhaps Lady Hufflepuff could have done better, but that might be expected of a teacher. They were better than Helena had ever done before, at least.  
  
So that was the lower tunic she wore for the ball. A proud Ravenclaw, in her House and family colours, they thought. But that was merely coincidence. Her robes were the colour of the night sky, of freedom and power. Her head was held high, the veil worn as a crown, and they gazed at her in wonder as she glided on air about the hall.  
  
But there, at the door, Earl Killian. She had known that he would be here, but had hoped against hope that he would be prevented from attending. And he wore clothes of blue and green, her colour and his. He could not have known- but there he stood in his classic green, mixed with a blue the same as her gown. Had her mother told him?  
  
He came immediately to her side, arm held out as he requested with the most sickening charm to dance. What could she do but accept, and they stepped and turned together while on the gallery the minstrels played long meandering strings of notes. The musicians were the best, but to Helena's ears the melodies seemed distant and vague.  
  
Killian asked her again to marry him, and again she told him no, but he would not leave. Her mother could have found a way to escape, the words to drive him away. It was the tiara, which gave wisdom and elevated thought. Lady Ravenclaw wore it now, set with deep blue gems which glistened with power. Power came from freedom, and freedom from knowing how to escape. Her mother knew, but would not share her secrets even with her only daughter.  
  
Now Killian had left Helena's side and joined Rowena, and they talked as friends. How could anyone make the arrogant earl seem so docile? Helena mingled with the guests, drifting through conversations as she struggled to find the words. Mother could always find the words, could talk about nothing for hours if there was time to be passed or favours to be won. It was the tiara, offering her this path to freedom.  
  
Helena ate nothing, nor did she drink. She would only shame herself by an instant's carelessness, as she had so many times before. While she enjoyed the sweetness of the mead, it clouded her thoughts. There, her mother and Killian sipping from their cups. Mother would be as sharp as ever, power over everyone around her. Mother always knew what to say to make a person do her will, even Helena subject to her spell at times. This was the true magic, the one which Rowena did not teach but clutched to her chest and shared not even with her only daughter.  
  
Lady Hufflepuff knew how to make a household run smoothly, and she taught that to every girl who passed through the school. From Lord Gryffindor they learnt to inspire bravery in others, to lead, and to keep going when all seemed lost. Lord Slytherin taught the boys - and many girls, Helena included - to look always to the highest position and to know how to rule from behind the throne. How to know who to approach, and what to offer. And how to pass the blame if everything failed.  
  
But Lady Ravenclaw shared only knowledge, not the ways by which one might gain such wisdom. She taught them facts, not skills. Few realised what they missed, but Helena saw her mother working the magic and knew that it was a special secret. One which she would not tell even to her only daughter, who was instead expected to follow her commands blindly.  
  
Helena looked for someone else to speak to, to avoid her mother's inevitable call. She turned and, seeing the familiar figure behind her, slipped smoothly into a curtsy. "Lord Slytherin."  
  
"Miss Ravenclaw. I was about to ask whether you should like to dance."  
  
"I should indeed like to dance, sir." Unlike with Killian, it was not intended as a romantic affair but merely as polite amusement and an opportunity for a private conversation if desired. Most likely Lord Slytherin merely wished to pass the time, as the ball dragged on and repeating the same conversations became wearing. Lord Slytherin took her hand and lead her out, and they stepped in perfect synchronisation through the well-known sequences of steps. Lord Slytherin guided her gently and firmly, an experienced dance partner.  
  
"So, Helena, are you enjoying the evening?" He laughed softly before she could answer. "Perhaps that is not a question I should ask. You are avoiding your mother - perfectly understandable, and no surprise - and also a certain young man. I suppose I need not worry about whether my dress robes are suitable for a wedding in the near future..."  
  
"I have no interest in him, sir, although he seems to feel differently about me." Helena tried to be careful, with her words and her tone. Did Lord Slytherin agree with her mother, or with her? He guided her round in a sweeping circle, stepping to the beat of the music.  
  
"What is your opinion of him, honestly? I have my own perspective - I taught him for several years, and he was a member of my House - but no doubt I have seen a very different side to you." They turned slowly, as he paused to see whether Helena would answer. "You have known me for long enough - you grew up in the castle, and if I am not like a father to you then do I not seem at least an uncle?"  
  
That was true enough. It was Lord Gryffindor who had bounced Helena on his knee as a small child, and played games with her on occasion, but Lord Slytherin had been there once when she tripped and fell to heal her grazed skin and bruises. He hadn't scolded her for crying, as her mother might have done. She had only been perhaps six years old at the time, still running around the grounds. While he had spent little time with her, he had always been kind and understanding.  
  
"He seems younger than he is, expressing his obsession again and again with the same clichés. He is oblivious to everything around, and unable to consider the possibility that he may not always get his way. He is as old as me, has finished the final year of his education, and yet he still seems like a boy."  
  
They turned slowly as he laughed again. "You see no redeeming qualities? You are a harsh judge, Miss Ravenclaw - you may not like to hear it, but you are like your mother in that respect. Except that, fortunately for all of us, your words do not cut so deep. You see what you do not like; she understands, and knows how to use that understanding. It is not conducive to civil conversation."  
  
Helena had never heard anyone criticise her mother in such a way. The Founders always spoke highly of each other, but Lord Slytherin had admitted to her how he really felt. They danced on, and her mind reeled as she tried to understand. Why did he say these things to her, now? Was there something she did not know, some change already in motion? Was he trying to hint at something?  
  
"As you say, he seems young, particularly considering that he is the same age as you. But you seem to me older than your age; most girls at your stage in life would seek a future such as he offers you, with comfort and status. Love comes later, as you come to know each other. Dislike may be overcome. Many parents would not offer you the freedom that you have. Are you waiting for love? That is as childish and fanciful as the young earl's obsession."  
  
His tone was not so harsh as the words, but Helena still struggled to hide her hurt. She glanced up, at the enchanted ceiling. Deep blue, like her gown. Ragged clouds at the edges, between them shining stars. She breathed slowly, remembering her position. She was the daughter of Rowena Ravenclaw, and while she might detest the fact it offered her power. Seeking love was neither childish not fanciful. Love existed, she knew - she had felt it when she was with Matilda. But no-one could know, because they would not understand.  
  
"So you would prefer an older man, one with greater maturity."  
  
"Why does everybody wish to play matchmaker? I have no desire for any man, old or young." She allowed her anger to show, her frustration at the constant pressure and the way that no-one seemed to understand. Lady Hufflepuff was unmarried, and she suffered none of this pressure. What did Helena have to do to earn the same power?  
  
"Some would say that it is your duty-"  
  
Helena cut across him, manners lost in anger. "It is not my duty-"  
  
"Is it for you to say what is your duty and what is not? You have been raised well, and you should know what is expected. What do you intend to do with your life? How long will it be before the great lines die out, if well-born witches such as yourself follow such high-minded ideals? Already there are enough of common blood, and before long there would be few others. I did not build this school to educate ignorant weaklings in out ways."  
  
"I have been educated so that I may make something of my life, not merely to produce children of pure blood to prevent you from growing bored." His grip on her tightened, and he continued to guide her through the dance as though nothing was amiss. His eyes narrowed, cold as the snakes he so loved.  
  
"Just because you are no longer my student does not mean that you may speak to me as you wish. You are still resident in my castle-"  
  
"It is my mother's castle as much as yours-"  
  
"But you are not your mother. I have watched you grow up, and do not wish to see you make such mistakes. Listen to my advice, for I have seen far more of the world than you ever will. I have taught many students, male and female. Those of good blood usually understand the importance of tradition and status. You are an exception. Understandably, you seek to follow the example of your mother. Remember that she too was married once, although she never speaks of it. Do not presume to have the same talents as your teachers. Such witches are rare, and you are not one."  
  
He hissed the words at her, and his tone and expression warned Helena to remain silent. When she glanced up once more, the clouds had closed in to conceal the open blue with a low ceiling of grey. She regretted her loss of temper. Lord Slytherin had seemed kind, understanding, but she should have known by now that he was a master of deceit. When had he ever acted for the benefit of any but himself?  
  
"Recognise the truth. You are not special, except by blood, and while blood always tells it may be betrayed. You are offered a great opportunity. A young earl, who dotes on you and would offer you great comfort and standing for the remainder of your life. But no, he is too young and his devotion is childish. Not everyone is so cold as yourself. You would prefer an older man, one who would bother you less. Many girls do prefer older husbands, taking advantage of the maturity which comes with age."  
  
Helena wanted to protest again, but his firm grip reminded her to hold her tongue. She was used to people telling her to marry, but not in this way. Most could not see her objection to Killian. Lord Slytherin understood, and his suggestions were reasonable. That was perhaps what she hated most: that so much of what he said was true, and she could not argue. Truths which she had been hiding from herself. She would not marry; she was married in the eyes of the Lord, although no-one could know. But resistance grew harder as he spoke.  
  
"You would make a good wife, especially once you had grown accustomed to the idea. An older man could guide and care for you in the way that you need. A young woman brings joy and life to a house. I am unmarried, and could offer you a comfortable future. I think I would be mature enough and of sufficiently good blood to satisfy your pride. Would you like to be my wife?"  
  
She expected him to continue, but he was silent, and it dawned on her that the question was genuine. She tried to pull back, but he would not allow her to. "Why are you afraid? I am not so very old, and many women marry men over twice their age. Would you prefer the young earl after all, Helena? Is it merely your pride, that you spurn any sign of affection from those you consider unworthy? Or do you still cling to some foolish notion of love? Love comes later, if it even exists. I can offer happiness and comfort, which would be enough for any other girl."  
  
For the first time, she was afraid. She had though that she knew him, her teacher and a figure of authority, but she was no longer a student. She had finished school months before. And now he wished to be her husband. When he spoke so condescendingly of love, fear was replaced by anger. "Love is no foolish notion. Just because your heart is made from stone- it is real, and I know how it feels."  
  
He stared. "So you are not so aloof. You do have some interest in others. Then why have you never said? Your mother would allow you to do as you wish, even if it should lead to unhappiness. She believes that you should be free to make your own mistakes- there is no need for you to behave as though we would hurt you given the chance."  
  
"You would not understand. Even Mother, who thinks that she understands everything-"  
  
"How can you know whether we would understand, if you tell us nothing? And how can we hope to understand, if we may not even know? You may enjoy your secrets, but you cannot blame us for not allowing you to be happy if you will not tell us what you desire. Explain, or do not mention it at all."  
  
How could she answer? She should never have mentioned love, but at the time she hadn't considered being forced to explain. She'd imagined it being accepted without question, like in old stories. "A student, in your House, in my year at the school."  
  
"In my House, so of good birth. Why should we not understand? I remember no boys in my House who would be so unsuitable that we would refuse you your way - even if they did not hold title, your mother would allow you to make your own decisions. A name, Helena; who is this young man who has earned your affection?"  
  
She pulled away quickly, managing to tug free of his grip. "He is trapped in a woman's body." She left him staring in shock as she backed away. "See, I said that you would not understand. You will accept nothing that does not meet your expectations. Blood, gender, title- can't you see, they do not matter? Inside, he is a man, but if you knew you would have us exorcised for demons. But he was a better man than you will ever be - he truly cared, not shallow nor obsessed by appearance. I will not marry you, nor Killian, nor anyone else; because I have found the best of men and by the blindness of society we may never be together."  
  
She turned and fled, ignoring the stares. She'd hissed the words at him, so they did not know what she had said. All they knew was that there had been an argument, between Lady Ravenclaw's daughter and Lord Slytherin himself.  
  
Her mother caught her as she passed, and Helena was forced to stop. Above, the grey clouds seethed, closing in lower, closing her in- The deep blue sky of the early evening was gone, freedom stolen and power lost. So quickly, everything had changed. What had happened? She needed space, to think. She wanted to escape the hall, the castle; the people all around, watching and whispering.  
  
"Helena! What do you mean by this?" Lady Ravenclaw kept her voice low, trying to prevent onlookers from hearing. "I do not know what led to this rudeness, but you must apologise immediately to Lord Slytherin. You are my daughter, and I will not have you shame me in this way."  
  
"Shame you!" Helena didn't bother to speak softly. She was tired of hiding her feelings behind the mask of politeness. If they did not respect her, why should she respect them. "I am tired of being no more than your daughter, a trophy to be paraded and sold when convenient. Salazar-" he was no nobleman- "claims that I am a foolish child when I say that he or any of you would not understand, but I was right."  
  
Rowena tried to hush her, grabbing at her arm to lead her from the room. Helena refused to go. "Now you try to hide me out of shame. If you loved me, if you understood, you would not be ashamed. He, however-" Salazar had followed her, and approached with features set hard. "Did you suggest that he propose to me? Yes, he asked me to marry him if I did not care for Killian, saying that it was my duty to our kind to find a suitable husband."  
  
Apparently her mother hadn't known, for she glanced away from Helena for a moment to stare at Salazar. The room was deathly silent, every guest watching and listening to the argument. "Why? So that I could have good pure-blooded children as he considers them more trustworthy and intelligent. Just because the four of you are all pure-bloods-"  
  
"Neither of my parents possessed magic." Helena whirled around to stare at Lord Gryffindor, but his attention was on Salazar. "Does it matter? Am I less trustworthy and intelligent than your precious pure-bloods? Less powerful, perhaps?" The threat was barely veiled; Lord Gryffindor was an infamous duellist. It was he who taught advanced defence to every student, regardless of House and gender. Lord Slytherin had never argued with him properly; if they did, it was only behind closed doors and only the other Founders knew.  
  
"I have listened to you curse those of my birth, and never spoke of my parentage because I knew that you would only judge me. I think I have proved myself enough now to escape your petty discrimination. I am tired of hiding something of which I am not ashamed - I did it so that we might live in peace. But I will not allow you to use such lies against Helena, who is like a daughter to me."  
  
Silence greeted his words, as Salazar's face grew darker until he hissed in a tone so cold that for a moment Helena thought he might be speaking in the language of snakes. "How can you say you are so trustworthy, when you have kept this secret from us for all these years? We, who have shared everything-"  
  
"Everything? I have not lied to you, Salazar. You have never given reason for me to believe that you thought me pure-blooded, except perhaps that you tolerate me. I daresay there are many things you have never told us; I do not remember you saying anything about an intention to marry Lady Ravenclaw's daughter-"  
  
"You as well! I am not just my mother's possession-"  
  
"And Lady Ravenclaw is not just yours, and yet you refer to her as your mother," Salazar sneered at her. Helena pretended to ignore him. She had been ready to continue her rant, but the interruptions had thrown her. She needed to think about it. She needed time to figure it out. Her mother, with her magical crown, would know what to say. But Helena had lost control. Suddenly Lord Gryffindor had informed them that he was of non-magical blood, and he and Salazar were arguing in public for the first time since her birth.  
  
"I am aware of that, Helena, but for my purposes it works best to refer to you in that way. Lord Slytherin has accused me of betraying the trust between the four of us, but by failing to inform us of his intention to propose to you he had betrayed Lady Ravenclaw's trust. Lord Slytherin, you have been a good friend, and if we could forgive each other our secrets we could continue to be so."  
  
"You think you can fool me? You seek to shame me now, to seem the hero, and yet you expect me to forgive you? That is no small secret you have kept from me. How long until you again go behind my back to shame me? You are no better than your ancestors, and unworthy to be counted among the founders." If Lord Gryffindor was taken aback, he did not show it. Instead, he shook his head.  
  
"It is you who are unworthy, Salazar, if you cannot see that Godric is as fine a man as you; finer, in fact, for he does not operate such petty prejudice." Helena had never seen the Lords argue, and she had never heard Lady Hufflepuff speak to anyone like this. Lord Gryffindor could be sharp with the students, lecturing them as he had Salazar, but Lady Hufflepuff had always retained her composure.  
  
Rowena stepped in at last, her words clear, loud and yet still dignified. "I think, Salazar, that you have made your position quite clear. You are blinded by your prejudice, unable to see past what is on the surface. If you do not wish to work with us any longer, we shall not insist that you do. If Godric wishes to stay, we will welcome him here. Helga and I will certainly stay, and continue to teach the students as we always have. Godric, do you wish to remain?"  
  
He hesitated, always considerate. If he stayed, then most likely Salazar would not. He did not want to drive his old friend from the school, Helena knew. But he did not want to leave. He was proud of his school, of his students, and he enjoyed the company of his fellow founders. "I will stay." There was no joy in the words, because he knew what would happen.  
  
"See, you all turn against me so quickly. I have no desire to stay here longer, among fools and traitors. There is one within these walls that respects me properly, and when the time comes it shall avenge this discourtesy. That is right: I have created a chamber which you will never find, and even if you could it will remain empty. And you will die knowing that one day, my heir shall return to open my chamber of secrets, and those who deride me so willingly will be forced to their knees. Yes, Godric, your kind shall no longer be permitted to shame our society - mudblood." He spat the final word, to gasps from many. Godric turned slowly away, unwilling or unable to face the friend who had turned against him so quickly.  
  
"Have you just created a new word for the purpose of insulting a former friend, Salazar?" Helena recognised Lady Hufflepuff's tone, the one used to chastise any girl who behaved in an improper manner. "Surely you could be more inventive than merely running together two common words." The tone might be familiar, but not this cutting edge.  
  
"Why create new words from nothing when perfectly adequate terms exist already? Filthy blood, mudblood. Blood always shows." Godric faced him once more, looking him in the eye. With a spell, he slit his palm, and allowed the blood to well in the wound.  
  
"My blood is as red as yours, Salazar." Salazar spun without a word and swept from the room, leaving silence in his wake. Helena felt like the room was a long distance away, as lightning flashed and the faces of those gathered lit ghostly white. Everything seemed blue. The blood on Godric's palm, deep blue, dripping. Red was the colour of anger. Blue, power.  
  
Everything she saw seemed blue, bright colours gone from the world. Shadows were deep, sharp, movements blurring - and the blood, drip... Her head spun. Others were beginning to move, guests making excuses to leave. Godric healed the cut with a tap from his wand, then sound rushed back in a clamour. What had just happened? No-one else had noticed anything strange, beyond the argument. It had all been inside her head. Why? Was it a curse, or madness?  
  
Everyone moved around her, a blur of colour. Helena stood frozen, overwhelmed. One moment everything had been silent and dark; now it was far too bright, sounds too loud. Perhaps it was the shock of the return to normal. But what had happened in the first place? A curse? Madness? Had she been so affected by the sight of blood?  
  
What had happened this evening? It should have been like any other ball - a long night of dancing and making polite conversation, Killian following like a puppy in her footsteps as she ignored his whines. Instead-  
  
It made no sense; it had happened so quickly, and now Salazar had gone. One thing was still the same: Killian by her side, offering his arm and a drink. Was he so very blind? Had he not heard the argument, seen Salazar sweep through the doors to the Great Hall? And he said that he loved her, again, and Helena pulled away with frustration. What must she do to show him that she did not care? The one she loved was far away, and they were cursed never to be together, yet she did not whine.  
  
Once the shock was over, they would remember how she had spoken and what she had said. How could she explain? They would blame her, for if it was not for her then the argument would never have begun. Godric would never have seen the need to speak out, and Salazar would not have learnt the secret. The party would have finished like any other, and the next morning normal life would resume.  
  
There were so many other things she could have said, other ways she could have dealt with Salazar's words as they danced. She should never have lost her temper in the first place. Mother would have known what to do, would never have caused this to happen. And she would know how to deal with the whining puppy.  
  
Helena left the room quickly, giving no-one the opportunity to call her back. Killian was used to her walking away from him, so only gazed pathetically after her. She had to think, to figure out what had happened and what she should do. Why did everyone want her to marry? Why had Salazar proposed to her? Why had Godric spoken up when he did? Why had Salazar reacted like that? Why-  
  
There were too many questions. Helena found herself walking automatically, and let the castle guide her. If you had no destination, the castle would take you to the perfect place. That was part of the magic, not deliberate but a residue of the powerful magic of its creation. It led her to the door of her mother's rooms.  
  
it was a long time since Helena had been inside. She had her own room, since finishing her final year of education, and she never deliberately sought her mother. But now her hand reached out for the doorknob and she let herself in. The room was as she remembered it, furnished in blue and bronze. Bright blue, and dark blue like the night sky. Helena's colour, her freedom. The same shade as her gown.  
  
She took one of the blankets from the bed, wrapping it around her shoulders for warmth. Her colour. What if she refused to leave, made the room hers? She could change things, move them around, paint the ceiling to look like the night sky - or even enchant it, like the Great Hall. But then the clouds could come to ruin everything. No, it should always be blue. The stars might drift slowly, but the sky would never be hidden. Always open, looking out, a world without rules. Where she could do whatever she wished, free.  
  
There, on the wall beside the bed, a portrait. A portrait of Helena, then just a few years old. Why did that make Helena angry? She wrenched it from the wall, flinging it across the room. No wonder her mother thought of her as a baby, pretending her little girl had never grown up. Pretending Helena still needed her, pretending she cared-  
  
Helena's eye was drawn to the shelf where her mother kept her jewellery. A dark blue gem, deep and rich, set in the centre of an intricate tiara. Like a sleepwalker, Helena moved forward and lifted it down. The gem held a promise: understanding. And with understanding came power. At last, Helena could understand what had happened, and more besides. Why people treated her as they did, and how to gain their respect. How to escape the trap she was caught in.  
  
But if her mother entered now, she would never be allowed to wear it. She could never know. She slipped from the room, to the entrance to the nearest secret passageway. She knew them all - of course her mother had taught her the secrets of the castle, displaying her handiwork with pride. What did it matter who had built it? Outside of the castle, Helena would be free. With her mother's crown, she could find a way to build a life for herself. She suddenly realised that she still wore the blanket - no matter, it was in her colour after all.  
  
But soon her mother would seek her, and find the broken painting. Then the missing tiara. She would come to find Helena, drag her back and force her to marry the whining puppy. She had to get away, somewhere they wouldn't find her, where she could set the crown on her head and learn what to do. She could apparate, at least, and there was other transport. Another country would be best, one where they could not find her- 


	3. Dolores Umbridge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dolores Umbridge struggles to cope with the consequences of being different. 
> 
> Trigger warning: eating disorder, substance abuse

**~ Dolores Umbridge ~**

 

Whispering. There was always whispering. Dolores, the stupid one. Fat, ugly Dolores, the Sorting Hat's big mistake. There wasn't much ambition there, otherwise she'd take care of herself more. Brush her hair before going down to breakfast, were smart shoes and clean her nails. Dumpy Dolores, who wore boys' trainers and baggy sweaters, not fashionably baggy just casual and untidy. And her voice!  
  
Dolores didn't listen at first - they'd get bored, and stop, or realise that they were wrong. Besides, what could she do? She didn't have any clothes like theirs. She'd always refused to get them - she liked to be comfy, and what was the point in shoes you couldn't walk in? As for her voice- she'd never noticed anything strange about it. Where she came from,  pretty much everyone spoke like that.  
  
When the summer holidays arrived, she waited desperately for an opening to ask to go shopping. She wouldn't get much - her parents though she had plenty of clothes to be going on with - but even just one pair of nice shoes would be a start. Anything smart would do, so she could prove she could look nice.  
  
Why was it that nice clothes never came in her size? They just didn't look right on, and she left shop after shop empty-handed. Smart shoes were too narrow, or didn't come in small enough sizes. Then there was the issue that she had nothing to wear them with as she had no nice clothes, and if she got nice clothes she would need nice shoes to wear with them. Her parents would moan about paying for too much.  
  
So she went back to school in September with just a new jumper and a couple of tops she had managed to pick up as well as her old casual clothes - they were an improvement, but nothing like the kind of things the other girls wore. Would it make them laugh less? No. No sense of style, they said, not even having the sense to hide the way she was ugly and fat. Bursting out of her clothes - and just look at her stuffing herself with cake.  
  
How did they all manage to look so perfect? She tried to eat less, but it made no difference. She knew her clothes were too tight, but they were already wider than everyone else's - she knew because one day the girls in her dormitory picked them up and read the numbers on the labels out loud, and everyone laughed. When she looked in the mirror, she could see what they meant - she seemed all sagging fat, made worse by clothes stretched tight although they were supposed to be baggy. When she went shopping the next summer, she bought the same kind of clothes in the same size - she could get in them, and she didn't want the girls at school to read the labels out again and realise just how huge she really was.  
  
They laughed at her voice, still, although she tried to talk like them. She couldn't tell the difference between hers and theirs, but there must be one. Apparently she sounded like a boy. How did one sound like a girl? She didn't know, but she tried, and they laughed more.  
  
In third year she couldn't do up the fastenings on her widest pair of trousers. Mortified, she left the dormitory and found a quiet corner until the other students returned to their common rooms that night. She walked as quietly as she could, creeping up to the hospital wing. There were so many stairs! She stopped outside the door, breathing hard, and reached for the handle but couldn't turn it. How could she explain to anyone that she was too big for her clothes? Even Madam Pomfrey would laugh.  
  
She lowered herself to sit on the stairs, and even that was an effort. She buried her head in her arms, trying to pull herself together. Madam Pomfrey had been nice to her when she was sick in first year, and when she'd twisted her ankle landing in flying lessons. Madam Pomfrey wouldn't tell anyone she'd been here- but what if there was a patient in there? And Madam Pomfrey might not say anything, but she would think it. Fat, ugly Dolores, greedily stuffing herself with cake, not caring how she looked.  
  
She fell asleep sitting there, too-small clothes in a bag on her lap, leaning against the banisters. She was lucky the stairs didn't move - but perhaps they didn't bother when there weren't many people about to notice. Perhaps the castle was sleeping. Maybe it saw her and felt sorry for her - that was how pathetic she was. The building pitied her. Was she even sane?  
  
Someone touched her shoulder gently, and she woke. A moment of confusion, then shame. Someone had seen her like this - she'd just plonked herself down to sleep on the stairs. Fat, ugly, mad Dolores. In ten minutes, the entire school would know. Maybe she should just leave.  
  
"Dolores?" The voice was kind - mocking her, no doubt. "Get up, darling, and come inside before anyone else gets up. Did you want to talk to me?" Madam Pomfrey. Well, it was too late for Dolores to leave now. She struggles to her feet, the nurse helping her into the hospital wing. It was empty, and she was lead through to the office and helped to sit down. She was crying, but tried to pretend she wasn't - hopefully Madam Pomfrey wouldn't notice.  
  
Of course she noticed, but unbelievably she didn't laugh. "What's wrong, sweetie? You can talk to me. I want to help you, and I won't tell anyone if you don't want me to." Dolores planned to pretend it was nothing, that she was just being silly, but somehow she found herself explaining everything. The nurse took the bag of clothes from her gently, placing them on the desk, and one by one she used magic to adjust the garments so they fitted.  
  
"Don't be ashamed of your size. Not everyone is skinny, and it's not healthy to be as thin as some of those girls. Not pretty, either, and they'll realise that later. You're a bit bigger than perhaps you should be, particularly considering your height, but I've seen worse. Girls will be girls, I'm afraid, and I know you can't just block them out. Try not to let it bother you, and don't be afraid to come and see me."  
  
Dolores didn't say much more, just a muttered thank-you before she edged towards the door. Madam Pomfrey watched her go with a sad smile. Dolores dressed sensibly, and didn't fuss too much over her body. The weight wasn't healthy, but it was better than the states some girls got themselves into over appearance.  
  
Pity, thought Dolores. She'd been comforted, briefly, but of course all Madam Pomfrey's kindness had been pity. She didn't want pity - why should she be pitied? Why couldn't she be like everyone else, wearing nice clothes that fitted and talking like a girl not a man? She wouldn't go back, unless she was ill.  
  
She didn't go to breakfast, although she was hungry. Other people managed without so much food as her, so she could do it too. At lunchtime, she was too hungry to stay away, but she filled her plate only with salad. The others would see her trying to look after her image. She never expected them to laugh.  
  
Now she only went to meals when hardly anyone was there. Her stomach growled, and she hunted through the library for a spell to hide the sound. Every day she looked in the mirror - was she thinner? Was it working? Any change was barely noticeable, and as she lay in bed unable to sleep for hunger she wondered whether it was even possible for her to look like other girls.  
  
The hunger seemed to fade a little as she got used to it. At breakfast time she went quickly in and out of the Great Hall, picking up just a piece of fruit and a piece of toast. That was all she ate each day. Somehow she couldn't concentrate in lessons, but then the girls had always said she was stupid. She was always the last one to master the spells - what was the point, anyway? So long as she knew how to do it, she should be fine if she ever actually needed the exam. It must just be the pressure of everyone watching her and laughing when she failed.  
  
Was she losing weight? Maybe, a little, but normal seemed an impossible goal. She found an advert for a weight loss potion in the Daily Prophet and placed a mail order. When the package arrived, she locked herself in a cubicle in the bathroom before opening it. A large glass bottle. She eased off the cap with trembling fingers and gulped it down, holding her nose and not breathing until she'd swallowed it all. She retched silently, before trying to vanish the bottle. The spell failed, so she hid it at the bottom of her bag before unlocking the door. She felt sick, but no doubt it would pass. It was probably just her being pathetic.  
  
In History of Magic, she began to feel strange. Her head spun, her eyesight blurring. Well, she hadn't had much sleep recently, and how many people managed to stay awake in History of Magic anyway? Her stomach seemed to coil and uncoil itself, and she felt sick, but she swallowed it down. Just the potion working - it just meant it was effective. She was used to her stomach cramping with hunger now, so she could stand it.  
  
Her vision closed in, darkening. She was exhausted, and Binns' voice lulled everyone to sleep every lesson. They learnt what they needed from the textbooks at the end of the year. But this wasn't like normal falling asleep. That was her last thought before everything went black.  
  
*  
  
She was in bed. That was the first thing she noticed. She felt sick. Then she noticed that people were talking, quietly, although she couldn't concentrate on the words. Finally her eyes opened, and she was looking up at the white ceiling. She couldn't move - her body wouldn't cooperate - and everything looked blurry. Where was she? Someone came and looked down at her, a dark shape against the light, and she tried vaguely to place it. Emotionless, empty. She felt her stomach spasm, and felt sick again.  
  
She was retching, and the person pushed her to lie on her side so that she the vomit could leave her mouth. She could smell it, the sharp tang, seeming to hang in the air even after it had been vanished. Her vision was returning, slowly. The hospital wing: that was where she was. The person was Madam Pomfrey, who was now supporting her head and pressing a vial of potion to her lips. She swallowed it instinctively, unable to care what it might be. She was allowed to lie back, and she drifted back out of consciousness.  
  
When she woke again, her senses were stronger. She could move her head, at least, and look around. The table next to her bed was empty. She lay for a couple of minutes, staring up at the ceiling. It took her a while to realise what was bothering her - what was she doing here? The last thing she remembered was being in History of Magic. She'd felt a bit strange before that. She must be ill, and it seemed to be something serious because people didn't normally black out. Dragon pox, maybe - did she have spots? She couldn't see any of her body for the blankets, and her arms wouldn't respond.  
  
She couldn't remember any of the others symptoms, so she didn't know. Madam Pomfrey would explain when she came back. And there were footsteps coming towards her now, and the nurse pushed through the curtains with a goblet of steaming potion. Dolores sipped it unresisting, although it burned her throat and tasted disgusting.  
  
"I found the empty bottle in your bag - anything else I should know about? Other than that you haven't been eating." Madam Pomfrey scolded her gently, and it took Dolores a second to realise what she was referring to - the weight loss potion! She'd never managed to get rid of the bottle.  
  
"What happened? Why-" Madam Pomfrey still hadn't told her what disease she'd got.  
  
"Did you read the instructions on that potion of yours? It's supposed to be last two weeks - judging by the delivery date and the state you're in, you drank it all at once. You realise you're lucky to be alive?" Dolores hadn't thought of that. It was frightening - she wanted to lose weight, not die. Just because the other girls laughed at her didn't mean that she didn't enjoy life.  
  
"Fortunately you had the bottle with you - Professor Slughorn was able to analyse the potion from the residue and brew an antidote before you deteriorated too far. But you'll be staying here for a few weeks, Dolores, and no more starving yourself! Proper meals and nutrient potions to top it up until you're back in a healthy state. If you're worried about your weight, I will make you a sensible diet and an exercise plan too. There's no reason for you to be as thin as some of those girls - a healthy medium is the best way to go."  
  
Dolores pulled a face - adults liked "healthy mediums". Couldn't they see she wanted to be like the others - small, dainty, and well-dressed. She wasn't convinced by the idea of this exercise plan either - she could just imagine the way the others would gather to watch her sweating away. And laugh more than ever.  
  
"You lost a lot of weight these past couple of days - and that is not an incentive to do it again! You might not be so lucky this time, and it isn't worth risking your life and spending weeks in the hospital wing to look like everyone else. Where's the interest, if you all look identical? When you're well enough to go out, you're going shopping - your old clothes don't fit anymore." For what felt like the first time this year, Dolores smiled. She still felt awful, but she could get clothes like everyone else.  
  
"Can I have some magazines to look at? So I know what I want when I go shopping?"  
  
"Right now, you're going to sleep. When you wake up, there'll be food and another nutrient potion, and if you eat it then maybe I'll let you have some for a few minutes." She'd be happy for Dolores taking an interest in anything. She understood the need to look at the fashions, too - it was obvious that it wasn't just weight that Dolores had been bullied over.  
  
Before long, Dolores was sitting up in bed, then she had a chair by the window to read her magazines. She could see that she was thinner, more like other girls, but surely they didn't feel like this all the time - she felt weak, her legs trembling when at last she was allowed to stand. She didn't look beautiful, but like a person who had been sick. Her hair was as lank as ever, until Madam Pomfrey came to sit with her and brushed it. Dolores was looking at the pictures of the women in the magazine, and Madam Pomfrey looked over her shoulder.  
  
"Would you like curls like that?" She used her wand to set ringlets , and was rewarded with a delighted smile. She didn't usually indulge students like this, but she knew that what Dolores really needed was kindness. She didn't understand the craze for curls, but she knew that a girl of Dolores' age cared about fashion.  
  
They went to Hogsmeade on a sunny afternoon, and Dolores was allowed to pick out whatever she wanted. An entire new wardrobe - she didn't have to worry about it fitting with what she had already. She would have enjoyed it if she hadn't felt so weak. She tried to remember everything from the magazines, but concentration was difficult. She settled for the easy solution in the end. The girls had said she dressed like a boy. How to avoid that? Pink. Skirts, knitted cardigans, fluffy textures and high heels. Madam Pomfrey sighed to herself - a ridiculous wardrobe for a fourteen-year-old - but she interfered very little.  
  
Finally, she suggested a visit to the pet shop. There were always interesting creatures there, worth a look. There was a white kitten curled up on a cushion, and Dolores was captivated the moment she saw its wide blue eyes and it mewed softly. The weakness was gone, and she went to it purposefully. It stretched to bump its head against her hand, and she petted it. When she looked around again, her eyes were shining.  
  
When she left the shop five minutes later, the kitten was curled in a cage which she held in her arms. Her smile faded a little as they approached the gates of the school, but still Madam Pomfrey had never seen her so happy. Suddenly she stopped, put the cage down, and was violently sick by the side of the road. The nurse said nothing, just vanished the mess and conjured a goblet of water. Her legs wobbled as she climbed the stairs, and other students passed her in silence. She could feel their stares, but they didn't dare speak in front of Madam Pomfrey.  
  
She collapsed into her chair by the window, staring out across the grounds without taking anything in. She'd been enjoying the outing enough not to notice how long she'd been standing. Somehow Madam Pomfrey saw it coming before she did and pushed a bowl onto her lap before she vomited. The house elves brought up food for both of them, and she was coaxed into choking down the first mouthfuls.  
  
She'd given up on not eating - it would have been impossible anyway, under Madam Pomfrey's watchful eye - and in a way was relieved to have no choice. It was wasting all the trouble she'd gone to in losing the weight in the first place, but she enjoyed the Hogwarts food and had missed it. She could eat without feeling guilty - she had no choice, after all.  
  
The kitten purred and rubbed against her hand when she let it out of the cage - she had a private room in the hospital wing now as she would be here for some time. Its fur was fine and soft, pure white. It was remarkably heavy when she picked it up, and as she cuddled it up, she realised it had no name.  
  
She looked helplessly at the nurse. "What shall I call it? Is it a boy or a girl?" Madam Pomfrey laughed - well, Dolores couldn't see anything funny about the situation. Had the nurse found the entire day funny? Had she been laughing behind Dolores'  back all day? It was a kind laugh, but to Dolores it suddenly seemed mocking.  
  
"She's a girl. It's up to you what you call her - you must have some ideas." It was a challenge, and then she'd wait to hear what Dolores came up with, and when the ideas were rubbish she'd think Dolores was stupid. More stupid than she already did. Dolores wouldn't let her - she wracked her brains for something good.  
  
The nurse left her to think, but Dolores still hadn't decided when she came back to remind her to go to bed. The kitten curled up next to her, and Dolores stroked her absent-mindedly. Soft, white, and sweet. If the kitten judged, she didn't show it. She was asleep, not even caring that her new owner was trying to name her.  
  
"Angel." Dolores said the name out loud. There was no-one in the room to hear her except the kitten, who didn't stir. A pretty little angel - none of the other kittens would ever laugh at her. Dolores wished she was a kitten. But then she'd probably be a fat ugly one that no-one wanted, stuck in a muggle rescue centre. Angel wouldn't want to know her. But she wasn't a cat, and Angel was sleeping happily next to her. Maybe cats really weren't interested in that kind of thing. It made a nice change.  
  
Angel grew quickly. From a tiny ball of fluff, she grew to, well- a large ball of fluff. Dolores slowly recovered - she'd never expected that moment when she drank the potion to affect her in this way for so long. In a way, it was a relief - no-one visited, so she didn't have to listen to them laughing. She might have enjoyed it if she hadn't felt so weak and sick. As the weeks passed, it became boring.  
  
Teachers began to visit, teaching her privately. She had lost a lot of time - would she ever catch up? Later she was allowed to leave the hospital wing alone, heading to the offices or classrooms for these extra lessons. She walked straight forward, ignoring the stares and whispers that followed. Remedial lessons. In the common rooms and dormitories, in the corridors, at meals, they must be talking about her. Dumb Dolores, unable to go to lessons because she was so far behind. Couldn't even read instructions on a bottle.  
  
She spent most of the summer in her room with just Angel for company. Her parents were shocked at what she'd done, and lectured her as though she were stupid - and as though they had some control over her. They acted like she would do it again if they didn't stop her - her mother wandered in and out of her room at intervals throughout the day, making sure she hadn't done anything stupid, and if she tried to go out they found excuses to keep her at home.  
  
She had no intention of doing the same thing again. If she bought another potion, she would follow the instructions on the bottle. But why should she? She was afraid - Madam Pomfrey said that it could easily have killed her. She needed to be alright, to look after Angel. And she'd lost so much weight the first time, but no-one had seen her because she'd been stuck in the hospital wing.  
  
Boarding the Hogwarts Express - was it a relief or not? She'd spent most of the time lying on her bed, often staring unseeingly at a textbook as she tried unsuccessfully to catch up. She couldn't stand to spend long in the same room as her parents, seeing them watch her warily. But what was there at school? More laughing, more remedial lessons, no doubt more meals under Madam Pomfrey's watchful eye and bitter-tasting nutrient potions.  
  
She was pretty much normal weight, and when she looked in the mirror she saw that she was no longer the great mound of flesh she had been before. But what was the first comment she heard as she entered the station? Here come fatty. Fat, ugly Dolores. Still fat. And she realised that however hard she tried, they would never leave her alone. Her hair was set in perfect curls - Madam Pomfrey had taught her the spell - but no-one commented on that. Angel in the cage was the only one who didn't hiss with scorn. On the train, she found an empty compartment and opened the cage to let the kitten out onto her lap. No-one else joined her - they peered through the glass, laughed, and carried on.  
  
The lady arrived with the trolley and out of habit Dolores bought herself cake and chocolate frogs. It was only after she had paid that she looked at the small pile and realised that this was what had made her so fat in the first place. But what was the point in resisting, it if made no difference to what anyone else said. She tucked most of the frogs into her bag for later - something she had never done before - but picked apart the cake and enjoyed the sticky sweetness when she finally licked the icing off her fingers. Angel nibbled at a stray crumb.  
  
At the end of seventh year, Dolores did not join the heartfelt goodbyes of the other girls. She was the first out of the door, finally free to go somewhere where she wouldn't be judged. She would prove to them all that she wasn't stupid. She could finally leave the place where she'd been trapped for seven years, the embarrassment of her inability to read the instructions on a bottle, the shame of not knowing how to behave like a true Slytherin, and the laughter and whispers following her everywhere.  
  
And Angel would come with her - she had no goodbyes to say, as her one friend would stay with her.


	4. Molly Weasley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly Weasley had two brothers, and they died on the same day.

**~ Molly Weasley ~**

 

You read about it every day in the papers, happening to other people's families. You know the danger of fighting, feel the pang when you see a familiar name in the list. Someone from the year above you at school, from another house, a classmate; you run over the one conversation you had with them in your mind. You hate the people who do this, you are afraid. Families torn apart, grieving parents and children, brothers and sisters. You never believe that it might be you.  
  
They knew the risks when they signed up. They chose to fight, rather than hide. Others in the Order have died, friends they'd worked with, people they knew well. That didn't scare them off. They were afraid, but that didn't stop them from fighting. Never the sort to run away, or to abandon others in order to save themselves. They saw people die so many times. They never believed that it might be them.  
  
The best of brothers, annoying as all little brothers were but fiercely protective of their older sister. Before she was engaged, they took Arthur out for a drink. The following morning, they gave their approval, and she'd married him in the summer. She'd have vetted their girlfriends, too, if they'd ever reached that stage. But neither was married, and neither ever would be now.  
  
At least they'd had a chance to be uncles, and they'd been brilliant at it. The older boys especially would miss them, as they'd taken every opportunity to visit. Perhaps it was a reminder of what they'd been fighting for, to keep them from giving up. They would never have given up, but they must have been tempted - she knew just a little of what they'd been through, what they saw every day.  
  
Ginny was just a month old, her only girl. The only one to be left without memories of her uncles. Even Ron, seventeen months old, had giggled as they tossed him between them. She'd been afraid for her children when they first did it, but by the sixth child she'd given up on protesting. She was too busy running around after the twins.  
  
There was a special connection between her brothers and Fred and George. Both sets of twins, they claimed one each and taught them their favourite pranks. Fabian with George, Gideon with Fred - that was one of their little jokes. Molly protested at them corrupting her sons, but she didn't mind really and they knew it.  
  
They'd been there for as long as she remembered, if not in the same building then within easy reach of an owl. Their letters made her first weeks at Hogwarts in some ways easier, in others harder. It was her first time away from home, and she missed them bursting into rooms with something new to show off or bickering for the benefit of the audience. Play-acting, with Fabian's dramatic death scenes and Gideon's accents that were all the same but you pretended for his sake that they weren't.  
  
But she could read the made-up stories they wrote her, and it made her feel less far from home. There were witches and wizards, dragons, goblins, trolls, giants, heroes and villains. She could see them fitting themselves into the story - Gideon as the hero, Fabian as the villain. The hero might always win the day, but the villain tended to get in some final blow before a final death scene that was supposed to be tragic but never was. No happily-ever-after endings - that was boring, they said.  
  
She didn't mind boring. Why couldn't life just be boring? Fabian might always have pretended to be the villain, but in real life he was by his brother's side. And for them, there had been no happy ending. Gideon, the hero of so many made-up wars, had met his match in real life. His brother by his side, fighting together until the end, but it hadn't been enough. In their stories, when  the hero died his death was still heroic. In his last moment, he would manage one last curse, or perhaps his loyal dragon would be enraged and avenge its master's death.  
  
Where was Gideon's dragon now? There were no dragons left. Molly would have avenged them herself, but there was Ginny and her boys to think about. Ginny kept her occupied for the first month or so, until the anger had faded. Then she felt just the need to survive. She had to be alive, to protect her children. None of them would die in this war, against this monster.  
  
The monster was gone, suddenly, no dramatic final face-off. But then the heroes were dead, so who else was there for the final battle? Not a raging dragon, avenging his masters' deaths. A baby, a year old - younger than her Ron. It didn't seem real - none of it seemed real. The villains didn't just disappear. But then the heroes should be at the final battle, striking blows even if they did not make it out. Sacrificing their lives for the good of mankind, or else emerging triumphant.  
  
There was no need to hide any more, no more fighting to be done. The stories had never said anything about what happened afterwards - the hero married a princess perhaps, or returned home to normal life until there was another villain to vanquish. The brothers should be doing that now, finding their princesses, returning to normal life until there was another villain.  
  
She tried to imagine how they would be now. Their faces, not as she'd last seen them - rough stubble, bruises under their eyes, hair matted and filthy. Not the faces in the morgue - a picture which, try as she might, she could never erase. Barely recognisable, not grins but frozen screams. She remembered them as they were before the fighting got so bad. Grinning as they tossed her twins in the air and made toy dragons soar around the room.  
  
The time they came and sat on the sofa with Molly and Arthur to watch the boys put on a play. Fred and George not against each other but best friends, both heroes together battling against Percy as the evil sorcerer. Charlie was a dragon - he would never be anything else. Bill was narrator, holding the script proudly and prompting his younger brothers in a loud whisper whenever they forgot a line. Even little Ron had been kidnapped so that the heroes could rescue him, and he lay oblivious in his cot cooing at the ceiling.  
  
Predictably, at least one of the twins had to "die". Death scenes were their favourite bit, rolling around on the floor with flailing limbs as the "dragon" did his best not to trip over them. Sometimes they would be mortally wounded and launch into a long monologue about the unfairness of it all, and how they loved their brother, urging him to vanquish the evil sorcerer. This time it was Fred's turn, and after the rolling and groaning was over he lay very still - something he had never managed before. Usually he wriggled around to see the action.  
  
Together George and the "dragon" managed to vanquish the evil villain and rescue the baby, and as the "dragon" carried the baby to safety - his mother's arms - George launched into a long - and surprisingly coherent - monologue about how his life would never be the same without his dear brother, which he was clearly very proud of. When he finally fell to his knees and buried his head in his arms, Bill broke the atmosphere by announcing proudly that it was the end.  
  
The twins were the first to jump to their feet, bowing as the uncles cheered and applauded enthusiastically. The "dragon" was next, flapping his wings and roaring as he didn't want to get out of character any sooner than he had to. Bill bowed solemnly, and finally Percy. While Molly and Arthur clapped, the uncles booed. None of the children were offended by that - in fact Percy took it as a great compliment. Finally they remembered their final actor, and the moment they cheered Ron the toddler started screaming. Molly took him out of the room to calm down, and as she rocked him in the kitchen Gideon came to join her.  
  
"Fred's a quick learner - I told him last time that dead people don't wriggle around. Were our death scenes really that dramatic, back in the day?"  
  
"Fabian's were. Yours were far, far worse." She laughed at the memory, still focussed on the screaming Ron. Gideon came closer and held out his arms, and she let him take the baby. He really was a wonderful uncle, his nephew looking up into his face with surprise and delight and instantly falling silent.  
  
"You never objected, and you were the one writing most of them."  
  
"You'd have sulked it I said you couldn't, and anyway you two were the ones with the ideas. I just wanted to make the sets and dress up - and don't claim you didn't like the dressing up part."  
  
"Well I have to admit young Charlie's Dragon is better than yours. Now that's how you do a roar - and did you make the costumes? You deprived us - I'm tempted to put on another play so that you can dress us up properly."  
  
"You do that - tell me what you want and I'll make it, then you can perform it to the boys. As a matter of fact, I found Bill trying to sew together scraps of cloth and cutting holes in curtains before one of their early plays. Fortunately for him, magic makes mending easy. Once I'd gotten over being angry, I told him to ask me next time and taught him to make the costumes properly. I help, but he does most of it. Charlie's always a dragon, so they just get me to change the colour depending on what sort it's supposed to be, and I made it big so that he wouldn't grow out of it too quickly."  
  
The uncles stayed for dinner, and even Ron was there in his high-chair. Gideon wouldn't let Molly feed him, insisting on doing it himself until Fabian got jealous and demanded a turn. Gideon turned back to his own meal, taking a long drink of pumpkin juice, and everyone laughed when his hair turned blue. He conjured a small mirror to see what had happened, twisting his head to see it from different angles before nodding with satisfaction. "I could rather get used to this look." He winked at the younger twins.  
  
"Nice. Do I get some, too?" Fabian stretched across from where he crouched next to Ron to pick up his own goblet and drain it. "Green! Glad to see you do these things properly." Fred and George were ecstatic at the compliment, matching their uncles' grins. "So you took those very fine costumes off? Especially you, Charlie."  
  
Charlie roared again, and Molly didn't have the heart to remind them about table manners. All of the rules were relaxed when her brothers visited - it would have been impossible to do otherwise. "The hero costumes are very nearly perfect," burst in George, who considered Fabian to be his uncle in particular.  
  
A raised eyebrow. "Very nearly? You are a very demanding boy, you know. Our costume were never that nice when we were your age. What more do you want?"  
  
"Well, proper heroes wear gold bird badges, like you." The table fell silent, except for Ron tapping his empty bowl with a spoon. Molly got up quickly and carried him out, gabbling something about taking him to bed. She'd put him to bed often enough to do it without thinking, which was fortunate. She was overreacting, she knew, but-  
  
The Order of the Pheonix was dangerous. Life was dangerous enough without looking for more. People who fought, died. Her brothers had been injured, had barely escaped on multiple occasions, but she knew she couldn't ask them not to fight. She'd fight too, if it wasn't for the children. But the idea of those children joining the order- they knew that their uncles were heroes, and they wanted to follow the example. They didn't realise that it was different to their plays. That when one of them died, they wouldn't get up again.  
  
Did Gideon and Fabian know that? If they hadn't understood when they signed up, they did now. But the children didn't. Bill was ten, and even he didn't understand. The twins didn't even know what their uncles did, as far as she was aware. She hoped they didn't. They were too young.  
  
When the news came, later, she had to explain to them. Their uncles had been fighting someone evil. Why, they asked, a question they asked about everything. She told them that the evil person wanted to kill a lot of people, and make himself in charge. Why, they asked. She didn't know the answer. Why would anyone want to do that? What drove a man to become a monster? What drove him to kill, again and again? But then what drove her brothers to fight, and Molly to protect her children.  
  
She told the boys that she didn't know, but that the evil person had killed their uncles. They didn't really understand, and she didn't expect them too. They lived in a world where the heroes and villains clashed in dramatic final battles, where the hero might die but the villain would be defeated too. Was the evil man dead, they asked, and she had to tell them no.  
  
Almost a year later, her eldest received his Hogwarts letter. The monster hadn't returned, yet, but still his death didn't feel right. No dramatic final battle - he had just disappeared. Molly buried the fears as she took Bill to Ollivander's for a wand and then round the second-hand shops for robes and books. Most of her family's money had gone to the Order, the Weasley gold too, and keeping such a large family was expensive.  
  
Her brothers would have been successful - they'd been bright, even if they hadn't always used their brains productively. They'd have started a business of their own, doing something no-one else had ever thought of, and they would be brilliant at it. But they would never have the chance. She had to look after the children, and Arthur was the only one working. At the moment, they had money, but they had to save it to get all seven through school.  
  
She hadn't been in Ollivander's shop since her brothers bought their wands. "Twins," he said, rubbing his hands happily. "I might have just the thing." In fact it took several tries to find the perfect wands . She remembered the way they'd tested each pair of wands, moving in synchronisation that could have been practised but she knew wasn't. And their disappointment when the wands weren't the same - something which surprised everyone but the old wandmaker.  
  
Now, looking back, it made sense. They were so similar, on the surface, but inside they were different in so many ways. Gideon was more dramatic, louder than his brother. Fabian would work for laughs, Gideon for gasps of amazement. But it was Gideon who comforted her when she was upset, while Fabian hovered unsure what to do. It was Gideon who helped her to quiet crying babies, and who her children trusted the most.  
  
Fabian was the one who suggested the pranks. Gideon did the detail, but Fabian was the one who refused to fear authority. Who reassured his brother that nothing really serious would happen - it was just a bit of fun. Gideon kept Fabian grounded, preventing him from doing anything really stupid.  
  
But you only saw the differences if you really knew them, as Molly did. Their conversations were almost entirely silent - they were too close to need words. They saw the two as a pair, not as individuals - Gideon might help them, but Fabian would be just behind. Fabian started sentences, and Gideon finished them - people said that they finished each other's sentences, but it was always the same way around.  
  
Who but family would notice? Molly watched her own twins grow up, saw the differences that no-one else noticed, though her boys were even more identical than Gideon and Fabian had been. George was the one who suggested playing outside, although Fred always agreed immediately. George was the more adventurous one, like Fabian had been, but the differences were less pronounced. That was fortunate - without Gideon, Fabian would have gone off the rails. She didn't want to consider her boys ever being separated, but if they were then George could cope.  
  
There had been a time when she had wondered how much longer they could hide. After the news came, and she realised that her family was like any other. No-one was safe - neither Gideon nor Fabian had done anything wrong, but they were dead. They'd been bright, they'd known how to fight, they'd been prepared, but it hadn't been enough.  
  
She'd seen the bodies, or she wouldn't have believed it. She still wondered sometimes, whether the whole thing was a nightmare. Sometimes, when Ginny was sleeping and the boys had disappeared to play, she tried to find ways by which they might have survived. Elaborately staged deaths, to trick the monster and protect them. The bodies could have been fakes. They could have taken the draught of living death to make them seem dead, and woken after she'd gone. The monster had eyes everywhere - no doubt he was watching her.  
  
But she knew her brothers too well. She had seen the bodies - no-one could have survived, not even under the influence of draught of living death. The fear and agony on both faces proved that these were no fake deaths. And if they were alive, they would have returned by now. The monster was gone - everyone believed so, anyway - and they would want to see the twins again. They'd loved those boys, and they would never leave voluntarily.  
  
Just like they would never hide. They would fight to the end rather than let someone else die for them. They would do whatever it took to stop the monster and keep Molly's children safe, they told her. After George mentioned the badges, once Ron was sleeping, Gideon came to find her.  
  
"He doesn't know what it means. I told them all to make their own badges - we needn't all have gold birds, and they should do something different. There are many types of heroes, and not all of them fight. Your boys will never have to fight - nor your girls, if you manage any of them. That's why we're fighting - for you, and them, and everyone else that he wants to kill. So that your children will never have to fight, and nor will anyone else's."  
  
She didn't answer immediately, but turned around and stepped into his outstretched arms. He sat down on the bed and held her as she cried, in a way he had so many years before when her parents died. He might be younger, but he was the one who helped her see that it was not the end of the world. People were born, they lived, and they died. So many people got so old they lost their minds and their bodies began to fall apart, but their parents had at least avoided all that. He hoped he would go like that - quickly, without too much pain and while he still had some independence.  
  
He never did rely on anyone else, except perhaps his brother, but she'd seen the pain frozen on his face as he lay in the morgue. He'd told her often enough that he didn't want to end up old and senile, but he'd wanted to go so soon either. He'd gone down fighting, protecting her and her children and everyone else the monster wanted to kill. But had it made so much difference?  
  
What was the use in wondering? Neither would have done anything else. Gideon had been the one to suggest the Order. Fabian had just decided that he needed to fight, and would have tried to hunt down the monster alone if no better course had presented itself.  
  
"You hear me? We'll keep your children safe. Fabian and I will do everything we can to make sure none of your children, or you, ever have to fight. You'll have lots more children. When this war's finally over we'll settle down and be proper uncles, and you can visit us as well as us visiting you, and you can enjoy being the only female - unless we find ourselves girlfriends. No doubt you'll carry on the string of boys-"  
  
Her next child was a girl, and she saw the amazement on their faces as they looked at the tiny figure in her arms. A little niece - they loved it, and they left ready to fight even harder. They were looking forward to being proper uncles. But when the war was over, they weren't there. She would never visit them in their own houses, unless you counted visiting their graves. And after they died she had no more children.


End file.
